


Overdrive

by aurorae



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fontcest, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurorae/pseuds/aurorae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something off about Sans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overdrive

**Author's Note:**

> ive only had two hours of sleep so i mightve overlooked something but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

There was something off about Sans – Frisk considered this observation through their second helping of basil-less spaghetti. There was a distinctive lack of salt, but then again, the brothers did not particularly have a tongue, and by extension, nor taste buds.

Frisk twirled their fork through the noodles and stole a glimpse at Sans. He was leaning against the chair, one slipper-garbed foot was propped against the countertop of the kitchen table, while his other leg simply dangled to his side. Sans was acknowledging Papyrus’ passionate, long-winded rant on household chores with a slow nod, and an “Uh-huh,” and “You sure are right, bro,” prompted whenever his brother expected a verbal response.

Sans twiddled the fork between his skeletal fingers. He snickered amusedly as Papyrus emphasized the necessity of organizing.

“Oh, speaking of which!” Papyrus rose from his chair and approached a kitchen cabinet, then returned with a bulk of envelopes in his possession. “I have compiled our mail!”

Sans sincerely congratulated him. Frisk nodded gratefully.

“Human, your mail!” he announced, then parted their share and set it beneath their plate. A look of vexation crossed his face as he set his brother’s pile of mail beside his plate, but the excess of envelopes tipped to the side and tumbled onto Sans’ uneaten spaghetti. Unfazed, Sans’ shoulders juddered in silent laughter.

“Behold!” Papyrus declared, and held up two envelopes fashioned with hearts adorning both sides. “I have admirers! It seems that I am winning at this  _dating_  thing,” he paused to flash a confident grin to Frisk, then added, “without even trying! Raw, strong emotions in these letters have been extended to someone as great as I!”

The fork bent in half between Sans’ fingers. Frisk’s eyebrows hiked bemusedly, but Papyrus had not noticed as he started to fidget.

With a nervous quaver in his voice, Papyrus rubbed the back of his skull, and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “But, I, ah, can concede that you are superior at dating!” In his visible distress, the letters crinkled against the pads of his gloved fingertips. “Will you help me, the great Papyrus, become greater by forming a response?”

Frisk frowned at first. Out of the corner of their eye, they spotted Sans’ beady pupils vanish in the darkness of his hollow eye sockets.

Frisk nodded slowly and offered a lopsided smile.

Before Papyrus could extend his overly enthusiastic gratitude, Sans’ chair screeched against the linoleum. He had pushed himself away from the table, and much to Frisk’s relief, his pupils had returned.

“Say, need a hand with that?”

The taller skeleton’s jaw slackened. “Help? This requires effort!”

His grin broadened. “Yea, I know.” Folding his hands, Sans focused his gaze on Frisk. The bent fork was hidden between his clasped palms. “Whaddya say, kid?”

Frisk did not immediately respond, but rather studied Sans before nodding again.

* * *

Frisk had not seen Sans throughout the entire, short time Papyrus was present before setting off to Undyne’s home for his cooking lesson. Frisk had volunteered themselves to create a rough draft for him—although they were still unsure how they could help, as their own date awhile back was a mere fluke. But how could they even pass off the chance to humor someone as  _fun_  as Papyrus? So while there were more misspellings and cross-outs than they would have liked, they were happy to provide some kind of assistance—and idly, they chewed on the end of their pen. Shifting on the racecar bed to get comfortable, Frisk hummed to themselves. They scribbled several crooked hearts on the margins of the sheet of paper.

The door then creaked open.

Frisk shot up.

“Working hard, I bet,” Sans quipped, and approached the racecar bed. “Go on, take a break or somethin’. I’m here to relieve ya of your duties,” he said with a wink.

He reached forward, making an attempt to snatch the paperwork on their lap, but blinked in surprise when Frisk uttered a small noise. They hastily gathered the letters, pressed it against their chest, and shook their head.

Sans did not withdraw his hand, but rather, he quirked his head to the side. “Frisk,” he warned. His voice was calm, patient, but they detected the subtle, underlying exasperation. They remained undeterred, until his pupils were once again smothered in the darkened recesses of his eyes.

It was not as discernible as earlier. Sans was waiting, and by the crinkling twitch of his fingers, his patience was wearing thin. “ **Hand them over**.”

A blue, foggy tendril seeped through his eye socket, and Frisk felt something constrict their chest and accelerate their breathing. Emitting a nervous warble, Frisk handed everything they had.

Sans’ lax demeanor resurfaced. He snickered, as if he had never lost his composure, then gently tapped the collection of papers against their head, and playfully said, “Don’t look so spooked, kid.”

He folded the sheets and stuffed them into the pockets of his sweater. “You made a good call there,” he praised halfheartedly, his sentiments tailed into a softened mumble. He stalked out of the room in slow, unhurried strides, but paused by the exit to spare a glance over his shoulder, and observe his housemate’s fingers anxiously clench against Papyrus’ bedsheets.

Sans gave them a two-fingered salute, then slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

Papyrus had been too exhausted to properly return to his bedroom, and instead, he retired to the sofa, where he was fast asleep. Frisk had awoken to the blaring creak of the staircase, and curious of the noise, they had left Papyrus’ room and peeked over the floor railings. Sans, who remained unaware of Frisk’s presence, had a pillow cradled under his arm and a blanket draped over his wrist.

He set the blanket over his brother, then diligently demonstrated an extensive amount of care and precaution as he carefully locked his fingers through the gaps of his rib cage and hefted Papyrus off the sofa with one hand, while the other plopped the pillow against the armrest. Sans lowered Papyrus against the sofa, retracted his hands, and then withdrew a step backward to regard his brother with a warm, gentle grin.

Yet, Sans did not linger. He turned on the balls of his slippers and departed out the door. Frisk held their breath for one second, then another, and finally exhaled sharply through their nose as they fortified their resolve and dashed down the stairs. Despite the ruckus of their descent, Papyrus had not stirred.

Uncovering the depth of Sans’ enigmatic behavior and actions filled them with determination.

* * *

Frisk was unsure whether Sans had detected them. Their arms had scuffled against the polyester of their bubble coat when they tried to run. Their scarf had snagged against the low-leveled tree boughs, causing the snow that lined the branches to tumble onto the ground in large clumps, which echoed in the silence of the snowy mountain range.

Sans had finally halted to a stop. He fished out the letters and rough drafts from his pocket, and tossed the sheets on an uneven mound of snow.

Frisk furrowed their eyebrows.

One pupil rolled to the back of his skull, while the other eye socket released a wispy tendril of blue and gold seeping from his glowing iris. Beasts with large, serrated maws materialized by his sides, and as these conjured creatures unhinged their jaws, a concentrated orb of white expanded in their mouths.

The world seemed to rumble beneath their boots. Frisk hugged the trunk of the tree to ground their stance, however, their legs quivered and nearly gave into their weight as their knees buckled. They observed the beasts continuously expel a burst of energy on the smoldered and diminished piece of the terrain.

Frisk released their grip and retreated.

Or, they were going to, until a film of blue enveloped their body and propelled them forward. They were weaved through the trees, then ungracefully tossed onto the snow.

Repressing a pained groan, they tipped their head and peered forward. Their throat tightened: the conjured creatures surrounded them. Sans towered over Frisk, and sported a wide, delirious grin.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, Frisk could see their reflection in the demented sheen of his iridescent eye.

“Tell me, kid…”

They could feel the ashes of the letters beneath their palms and the icy mounds send little trills of pain up their arms.

“ **Just how well** ,” he began, then folded his legs beneath him to meet Frisk’s level, “ ** _c a n  y o u  k e e p  a  s e c r e t?_** ” 


End file.
